YOUR DADDY'S RICH AND YOUR MAMMA'S GOOD LOOKIN'

summertime full frontal; portland, or, u.s.a. consecutive days of ninety-five degrees in upper latitude sun isn't something that the dewy skinned denizens of the pacific northwest are accustomed to, and we complain as much as we complain about the rains during the rest of the year. but that's just custom. our beside-ourselves-with-giddiness(ness?) is in no way diminished. the perennial dilemma: stay in town for the cut-offed, tank topped and tattooed, or head out for strange nature and sunburn. unfortunately, we're the only major west coast city not actually on the coast (though, granted, i don't think seattle even has anything like the beaches we have at sauvie island). but as such, when the living's easy, portlanders head to the river.

strangely, the northernmost point of portland is at the confluence of the willamette and the columbia, but "the river" refers to neither. and, in fact, it can be any of the clackamas, the sandy or the washougal (plus some, i'm sure, i've yet to experience), but still it's just "the river" -- and we know that you're a local when you can correctly pronounce the names of everywhere that might mean.

the river is a bit of a drive, but they're all well short of the four hour round trip to the ocean. come to think of it, i don't think that any river hangouts are actually in the city proper, but it's much easier to stuff five people and a picnic in the car when relief is just past traffic on the 84 or the 205 and not on the other side of a parking morass across the coastal range. the old swimming hole charm of the river wins it points over the ocean too, a nostalgically classic essential when the days get as stifling as these past few have been.

whether any of my friends has a swimming hole in her past i don't know. i certainly don't. to be honest, i'm not big on the out of doors, and it took me until last summer to accept a river invitation (or, keeping with that honesty, to get one). but the breed of americana rustica native to the river (which, incidentally, only drinks beer that costs less than six dollars a six pack) isn't at all alien to the city kids raised on fat inheritances of boomer tradition, even if they're just starting to peel back the irony and have real experiences of their own. thank god.

spring knows a spot at the clackamas that might be a secret. or it might be that people don't like fording the water twice with their crap held over their heads or scraping through a hundred yards of blackberries. then, sometimes, other people are there regardless. the secret spot is worth it, though. it's technically trespassing, but we paid for parking this time, so on balance we're on the right side of the law, right? the blackberries threaten to ruin the legs you've been looking forward to having seen in those sateen roller shorts, but the smell of the verdant heat alone merits the trek. really, you're walking through the bushes and the heat smells green; and you remember that yes, you live in a rain forest, and, but for the rain, it's amazing.

our spot at the clackamas is along a small inlet with a rocky abutment in its center. guessing from the rusted poles coming out of the water near its edge and the ruined concrete wall that separates the blackberry path from the inlet, the abutment was part of a bridge. to or from where i can't guess. there's sand between the water and the edge of the forest, but not much of it this past friday as the river was high, and there were others who'd made it to the spot before us. so we laid our towels on the rocks, which sounds better than concrete though that's more likely what it is. you can walk from the rocks into a deepish pool of still water, beyond which there's a fast current that runs across the mouth of the inlet. roll onto your back or your belly and you can ride the current its length, but the water's not deep, and losing your cool and dropping your posture means getting buffeted by the rocks.

just past the current is a pebbled shoal where i decided i'd make a spectacle of urination after one and a half red beers. it's easiest to get there by swimming to the upstream edge of the inlet and wading the current where it slows at a bend in the river before picking up over the rocks. the peeing was only half funny. or, at least i couldn't hear much laughter from the shore. i didn't have anything on my feet for that crossing and i've had a painfully awkward time taking steps. then insult adds itself to injury when i decide to get rid of the empty beer cans and sports drink bottles i find left on the shoal. i'm trying to swim the pool back to the towels with two armloads of buoyant trash, and i'm flailing, sputtering, trying to keep my head above the water and keep the water out of my mouth. after all, there's pee in that river. that got a genuine laugh.

then time in the sun. more red beer in the sun. berries and peaches in the sun. reapplication of sunblock. summertime full frontal. reading in the sun. talking with friends in the sun. gossip with friends in the sun. you serious, francie? no shade in the sun, though. no shade. and no sparkling mint and berry drinks. not only did i forget to pick any mint before leaving home, but the water at the back of the abutment stole the two bottles of san pellegrino we'd buried in the shallows to chill. by the time we gave up looking for them (which after so much sun and old german is a stupidly long while), all our ice had melted and bottle three was spared the guillotine.

past the shoal are two deep sections of calmer water bordered by the current that comes around the bend to the mouth of the inlet, the terrifying one that runs the edge of the bluff on the opposite side of the river and a third current that joins the other two. silly on beer and ecstatic at knowing that we'd all weathered another fourth and fifth winter (those are the ones that happen in june) without (completely) losing it, i decided i'd swim for a while against the currents and through those two calmer sections. it was great, but you shouldn't follow my example. i haven't gotten a tv signal at home since the first year i lived here, but i can't remember ever catching a local summer newscast that didn't report on someone drowning under the influence on the clackamas. but stupid hindsight just ruins my flow. those currents gave me some killer exercise. my arms still hurt so good. but the best part was hearing monique's thirteen year old sister laughing behind me as she rode the current over the rocks...and remembering how dumb with excitement i was doing the same thing for the first time last summer.

those rocks are like razors, though. good and bad. on the good side, the cuts don't hurt to clean and they're easy to bandage. unfortunately, combined with the scrapes from the blackberry bushes, they mean that having my legs waxed with monique next weekend as planned isn't going to reveal anything you'd want to look at. an argument for staying in the city, i suppose. but i wasn't hearing arguments at that point. in any case, we made it home by seven, and everyone was still cut-offed and tank topped. just in time for round two.